


Get Thee to Bed

by Not King George III (Eyvaera)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 10 percent PWP, 40 percent Fluff, 50 percent Emotional, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5564977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyvaera/pseuds/Not%20King%20George%20III
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a friend is ailing, what better to prescribe than bed rest?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Thee to Bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreckledSkittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSkittles/gifts).



> Written for my friend's birthday!
> 
> Although set historically and incorporating a few historical references, I would still firmly root this in the Hamilton fandom. Additionally, although I have said that, the visualisation of each man I leave to the reader. Personally, I see Jefferson more-or-less as he appears currently in the musical. As for Madison, I cannot shake a mix of his appearance from "I made America" and his historical portraits. I do, for instance, make reference to his stature as short (whereas he is, by way of his actor, tall and broad in the musical); so I leave the depictions to your personal preference.

* * *

    “Thomas, what are you doing here?” The confused intonation of James Madison’s remark is by no means abrasive; it is a pleasure to see his friend, after all, but to be called upon so unexpectedly was of some surprise. Thomas Jefferson is not immediately forthcoming with his response -- he takes an inordinately long time, and quite a show, of looking Madison’s form over, his eyes so scrutinising that it is all he can do not to shift where he sits under the weight of it. When his friend crosses the remainder of the room that parts them, and sets his hand without premise on Madison’s forehead, revelation finds him as quickly as he flusters.

“There’s no need for that, I’m quite recovered.” He insists, batting Jefferson’s fussing hand away. It does not have the desired effect, as Jefferson merely ignores his attempts to alleviate concern, grasping Madison’s chin lightly between his fingers, and turning his head towards and up, to face him.

    “Nonsense,” he supplies, somewhat amused by the startled, almost guilty expression he’s greeted with. “Your skin is still hot. You should be in bed, not sat at this desk, writing.”

    “The world does not stop for my illnesses,” Madison insists, averting his eyes from the look he receives at this response. “There is no need for your concern.”

    “If you think to make me drop this matter, you are not going about it the right way. You are my dear friend, James, and I will not be put aside.” Madison’s eyes slip back to his, and Jefferson smiles kindly down at him. “Now, let me care for you.”

    Madison’s pale cheeks colour considerably, both flattered and embarrassed by the suggestion. “I could not ask you to do any such thing! You needn’t trouble yourself--”

    “There is no need for you to ask; I am _offering.”_ Jefferson’s smile broadens, and he allows his fingertips to trace Madison’s jawline, brushing at the soft, pallid skin. He is a little satisfied when Madison’s protests cease at his touches, and the smaller man swallows so audibly it makes Jefferson’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Now, will you leave your desk and retreat with me to your chambers?”

    “W-well, when you put it that way… I suppose I have no objection with which to refuse.” Madison mumbles, his composure both slipping and reforming in the short moments it takes for Jefferson to lower his hand and offer it to his friend. Taking it, Madison rises to his feet, though he is unable to hide the slight unsteadiness that overcomes him as he does so. A steadying hand at the crook of his arm keeps him upright, and it is all he can do to not linger on the concern clear on Jefferson’s face.

    “My dear James, you will worry me to the point of another of my headaches if you continue to act like this. After all your paranoia over your health, I would hope for you to be a little more careful while recovering.” Jefferson confides gently, his hold remaining steadfast until he is sure that Madison can support himself.

    “I would not wish that on you for my sake, Thomas,” Madison assures, extracting himself as he crosses the room, Jefferson at his heels. Such a regular sight that is Thomas Jefferson that his presence is not unusual in the slightest. Thus, it is a small matter to inform the staff that his needs will be otherwise attended for a while, and that it would be most appreciated for them not to be disturbed.

 

    Once they have climbed the stairs to Madison’s private rooms, and the door is locked behind them, Jefferson wastes little time before imposing himself on his friend. Madison has barely started to move towards his bed before his arm is grasped by Jefferson; as he turns to enquire the meaning of it, his chin is once more caught by deft fingers, yet this time their purpose is to still him as Jefferson leans forward and presses their lips together. It is done without even so much as a ‘by your leave’, so for a moment Madison does not respond, startled but not altogether surprised. Jefferson does not pull back at Madison’s hesitation, instead pressing his mouth a little firmer against his, and at last Madison composes himself enough to return the pressure. His eyes flicker closed as a hand slips around to cup the back of his neck, keeping him close. It is, Madison notes with some affection, of an almost possessive nature, and although he has never been the most passionate of men, he does respond in kind.

    As he is subjected to a steadily deepening kiss, the lips of his friend firm and eager against his, Madison becomes acutely aware that he is leaning steadily backwards, angled by the sheer intensity of the often awkwardly taller man. Reaching out by instinct, he grabs at the fabric of his friend’s coat and clutches it, lips parting in a startled little gasp as Jefferson releases his arm and slips his own around him, both keeping him from falling and allowing their bodies to press flush against each other.

    “Thomas--” Madison manages to gasp when his lips are freed for an instance barely long enough to draw breath in. The response he receives is only a deep, throaty hum of acknowledgement, and then he succumbs to the inevitability of being ravaged. Jefferson’s mouth is relentless; first on his, then at the corners of his mouth, tracing heatedly along the line of his jaw as Madison tries very hard not to whimper in an utterly unseemly manner. Warm breath on his ear is a sensation soon overcome by wettened lips against his earlobe, sucking gently at the soft skin. Madison is forced to adjust his grip, his hand moving to clutch anew at the fabric across his friend’s back, his knees unsteady beneath him. Tingles of sensation and what he can only claim as desire course slowly through him, awakened by the man whose attentions are so ardently fixated on his person.

    Jefferson’s mouth trails down, releasing its shortly-held prey to affix passionate kisses down the length of his neck, heady and obvious in their intent. Encountering the high rim of Madison’s collar, they lift from what is both bared and hidden and allow words to slip past already swollen lips. “My dear James, you are thoroughly overdressed for a man who should be resting in bed.”

    A smile tugs at the corners of Madison’s lips, his chest heaving and prickling with heat beneath said layers. “You and I both are under no misapprehension over the true terminology of the term ‘well-rested’ under your attendance.”

    “Why, James, one could mishear and think my intentions impure.” With a grin not restrained by common decency, Jefferson drops a hand between them and, quite without shame, takes hold of Madison between his legs. The noise Madison makes is not one he will ever admit to, not in private and especially not in public. Jefferson is no preventer to the distress of dignity, for he starts to rub the palm of his hand against the fabric of his trousers -- the fabric of a design which hides little when it has need to hide much -- and looks, without a doubt, smugly self-satisfied.

    “Thomas, you--!” Madison halts his own speech before he can emit another of those embarrassing sounds, feeling his cheeks flush and warm to a red so distinct he could not hide it even were he to procure powder to try. _“Oh…”_ He murmurs instead, allowing this admittance of feeling to be duly muffled by Jefferson’s shoulder. Sentiments of fondness inexplicably rise among the other, more tangible ones, and he cannot help the whisper of his friend’s name on his next exhalation of breath, far more intimate than even the physical attentions they were performing. Jefferson seems to hear him, and for a moment his hand pauses, with a hitch to his own breathing that is unmistakable. Sometimes Madison does wonder whether there is too much between them, far more than perhaps there ought; when it is brought to the surface, as it is now, he wonders also at the fragility of it -- if someday it will be broken and he will be left with a friend, and nothing beyond.

 

    Such worries trouble Madison no longer than a few seconds, for with single-minded ease Jefferson hitches Madison up off the ground with one arm, the strain evident but not impossible for one who has done more manual labour than Madison could ever claim. His weak protests of “Thomas! I am a _grown man!_ I am not to be carried like an invalid!” go unheeded, and soon he is falling back against the plush, plumped pillows of his own bed. His friend’s hand remains where it is, in its inappropriate resting place on his crotch, but when he lifts his body enough so as not to crush Madison beneath the weight of it, it is Jefferson’s face that takes the force of his attention. It is a raw, open look, one that Madison is unused to seeing except on rare occasions -- and rarer still, yet not so much so of late, when they are together like this. It is affection and tenderness all in one, speaking of a deeper caring than the visits and correspondence they share; the walks and conversation are nothing compared to the honesty and depth of Jefferson’s expression. The physical intimacy does not compare; it occupies a different level.

    “Thomas… you look at me as if…” There comes the question; should he speak it? Would voicing what they are both already aware of be permissible, or even, at least, advisable? Thankfully, Jefferson needs no prompting beyond what has already been managed aloud.

    “James, you are the sole occupier of my heart.” He presses a finger to Madison’s lips, though the younger man has doubts that he could have spoken anyway. His eyes have widened, fixed utterly on his friend’s as he continues on, gathering courage with the admission. “If the only one who can ever know it is you, then that will be enough. More than enough, if you will accept me.”

    “Th-Thomas…” His voice must have seemed unsure, Madison thinks, for Jefferson seems momentarily insecure, his hand lifting from its low perch. “No!” He blurts out, startling Jefferson into confusion. “I mean, yes! That matches quite well with my--oh, Thomas, for once words will do me no good.” Pushing himself up from the covers, he captures Jefferson’s mouth with his own, trying fervently to put across his response indubitably. Madison is no less than pleased when his meaning is understood, for Jefferson’s returning fervour is as keenly felt as his words, his hand back between Madison’s legs and rubbing roughly as his other fumbles blindly at the restrictive necktie, kissing fiercely at his soft lips. At last accepting that they are no longer the adolescents they once were, they part long enough to work at each other’s clothing, unbuttoning and stripping each piece meticulously.

    Madison cannot help but notice that Jefferson is still rather better at it than he is, even after the practise he’s had with him on prior occasions. It is with no jealousy that he attributes this to Jefferson’s widower status; Madison, unmarried as he is, has only ever had experience with the man now looming over him, pushing aside his layers of clothing with impatience. He can picture the repetition of his earlier complaint before Jefferson has even voiced it.

    “James, when a man is afflicted by illness he possesses the right to dress rather less impeccably than he might when he is well.”

    “Such a man still does not expect to be taken to bed in a manner unbefitting the infirm,” Madison points out with a sliver of good cheer. “Besides, who is to say I do not wear so many buttoned items of clothing simply to arouse your frustrations?” The look he receives, unguarded and plain, tells him in no uncertain terms that Jefferson would much rather be ‘arousing’ something else. Still, Madison does nought to help him, instead keeping his body’s rebellious fever under some measure of control -- namely, by praying that he does not overexert himself in the throes that are sure to take him.

 

    It is not much longer before Jefferson has reached Madison’s pale skin, a canvas across his lithe frame. His appreciation does not go unnoticed, nor the faint brush of lips against the centre of his chest, dragging slowly down his torso in promise. Madison shivers beneath him, arching his back to subtly proffer his hips. For his trouble, he receives a sly smile, and the somewhat easier unfastening of his breeches. He aids in shuffling them below his hips, but is prevented from getting them further down than his ankles, as Jefferson takes it upon himself to press a hand against one hipbone, stilling him. It is not a great leap to realise what he intends, and the hard, aching length of his cock is an incentive for Madison to keep himself in check. Jefferson’s breath is warm and welcome upon his member, and this direct approach is refreshing, considering that usually his friend takes his sweet time. Perhaps in consideration of his continuing recovery, Jefferson does not linger long before he presses the tip of Madison’s cock against his lips, drawing it into the wet warmth of his mouth.

    “Hnn--!!” The sound escapes him in undesired volume; this sight, of Jefferson hunched over his dishevelled body, not at all the picture of composure that he usually so values, sucking keenly on his cock as fingers brush and tug at the sensitive balls at its base -- well, it is enough to draw more than sounds from him, and it is all Madison can do to prevent himself from reaching the eventual bliss so soon. One hand clutches at the bedcovers, while the other cards through Jefferson’s hair and curls tight. His thighs quiver reactively as Jefferson lowers his mouth further, his glorious tongue saying more than words could at this moment. Madison would hardly call himself liable to speechlessness, personally, but his aptitude has been reduced to gasps and murmurs of no clear speech. It does not trouble him, though the longer Jefferson sucks and pulls in his cheeks to torture Madison, the louder he fears he is becoming; this will not remain a clandestine encounter for long if he does not keep himself in check.

    Protests replace moans when Jefferson abruptly releases him, but he is quietened by that excellent mouth on his own, kissing absently as his friend reaches for something within the drawers of the bedside table. “We must exhibit restraint, my dear sweet James,” Jefferson murmurs, upending a little of the contents of a small bottle into his palm. “But it will be no less pleasant; I will make sure of it.” As he rubs a slippery substance into his fingers, Madison makes efforts to sit up, fumbling with Jefferson’s breeches. Once he’s eagerly (a rare enough display from him) tugged the hindersome garments down enough to not only throw them from the bed but admirably reveal the flesh beneath, Jefferson reaches behind himself, clearly to prepare his own body. Swallowing, Madison reaches between Jefferson’s legs in return, considering it his lover’s duty to keep his friend in the right spirits as he completes this task. He strokes his cock in slow, learnt movements, from the base to his tip, where he always squeezes to elicit that delightful gasp that he surreptitiously enjoys. Before long, Jefferson is rocking forwards into his touch, and then spreading his legs, both hands snaking beneath Madison’s arms, circling around him.

    “I want you, James.”

    Madison tries to swallow, but his throat suddenly feels like it’s closed in on itself, emotion and desire mixing together. He holds his cock in place as Jefferson lowers himself carefully down, taking it in inch by inch. Their bodies tremble; Jefferson at the effort to adjust, Madison at the tight heat around his member. When he can, he wraps his arms around Jefferson in return, burying his face in the crook of his neck. This muffles his initial grunts of pleasure as his friend starts to move atop him, lifting and lowering in a manner that is far more intimate than it is passionate. He feels teeth against his still clothed shoulder, biting hard enough to stifle the otherwise unrestrained sounds from his lover. When he is sure he has his breathing under control, Madison responds with twitches of his hips whenever Jefferson lowers enough to benefit; small bucks upwards into the heat and comfort of his friend. If anyone were to somehow bypass the locked door and encounter them like this, it is unlikely they would understand the deep, heartfelt adoration and devotion beneath the carnal act. It seems, often, that they do not always understand it themselves, but lost as they are in the pleasure and warmth of each other’s company, Madison thinks it would hardly be right to deny them it.

    They move together in this manner for minutes, time lost to the rhythmic mixing of heartbeats and breaths, skin against skin and a connection deeper still. When Madison cannot prevent himself from reaching the peak of euphoria, climaxing near silently and squeezing his friend in a crushing embrace, it is no surprise that Jefferson soon follows, coming against Madison’s stomach to the feel of his friend shuddering around him, muttering sentiments they would dare not repeat in public. When his grip slackens, summarily exhausted, Jefferson lowers Madison back down onto the covers, lifting off him and moving from the bed. He returns with a wet cloth from the room’s basin to clean them off, erasing physical evidence, if not memories.

    “Thomas…” Madison murmurs, fighting the pull of restorative sleep as Jefferson rightens his clothing for him, so as not to slip later and allow others any hint of what has occurred between them. It is only when they are both in a state of proper dress again that Jefferson answers, perching beside him on the bed and pressing soft kisses to his hairline.

    “Speak freely, James.” Jefferson whispers, clasping one of Madison’s hands tenderly between his own.

    “... beloved.” Madison responds, barely audible above his settling breathing. “Thomas… my beloved.”

    A genuine, bittersweet smile forms on Jefferson’s features, and he kisses him, heartfelt and longing. They are both shorter on time than once they were, and he hopes instantly that Madison outlives him; he could not face losing another so dear to his heart again, although to leave Madison alone would, he feels, be far worse. But something in this world brought them together, and if it cares enough to do that, then somehow, through someone, Jefferson trusts that Madison will be loved when he is gone.

    “Sleep, James. I will be yours until the last.”


End file.
